Minstrel in the Gallery

The minstrel in the gallery
looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes observed the spaces
between the old men’s cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred,
oblique suggestions and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters,
static-humming panel-beaters,
freshly day-glow’d factory cheaters
(salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He titillated men-of-action
belly warming, hands still rubbing
on the parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating,
one-line jokers, T.V. documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players
family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage
and he looked at all the friends he’d made.

The minstrel in the gallery
looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass –
saw his face in everyone.